Reflection
by ParisAmy
Summary: Sometimes he can see them in the mirror, and sometimes they slip from view, and when they do there’s only a country song playing in a vacant bedroom, lit by moonlight. Oneshot.


It's been a while since i've wrote for Lost, so i hope this is okay. I hope you're all enjoying the new and final season. I am! :) Thanks for taking the time to read, please review and let me know what you thought.

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Reflection

Somebody once told him love was passion and obsession and someone you can't live without.

That was love. He was in love. He _was. _

He fell head over heels. He loved her like crazy and he'd run the risk and got hurt, but he came back; back to her and _now_ and_ always_ and _forever. _

So he doesn't believe her when she tells him they're both dead. Like it's nothing, like she's known forever, that they are no longer living.

They're alive. They are, they are, they _are. _

They're standing in their house, their bedroom that has been theirs for so long now. The curtains are partly closed, the moonlight slowly filtering in from outside, reflecting shadows of strong, vibrant, upstanding, luminous yellow flowers.

"Look at us." She says, and he does. He turns towards the mirror hanging over the dressing table and he looks at a couple that were stranded on a desert island, which eventually became their home. He looks at Juliet, his passion and obsession and person he can't live without, by his side, smiling; but her eyes are gimlet sharp, like she's hoping he won't just_ look_ but he'll _see. _

He turns back and looks at her again, her eyebrows are raised as she tells him to- "Look again."

He turns back towards the mirror, looks again and…and…he _doesn't_ _see_ them standing there. He's looking at the reflection of an empty, derelict bedroom. The flowers on the opposite side of the room are limp and wilted, dead; their once luminous yellows were now dull browns. The laboured death he never saw coming. The curtains weren't there either; the moonlight was trickling in through the badly boarded up windows. The pattered wallpaper is wet and pealing, the small hole in the roof probably the problem.

"Do you see?" She asks, and her voice is nothing but calmness and peace and acceptance.

He turns around to face her again, and he can hear the intake of breath that shudders and shakes its way through his body. The left side of her face is patched with dried blood. Her face is too grey and too pale like…like she's…._dead. _

A part of him wants to turn around and see how _he _looks, but he can't move, his body is frozen in place, and his eyes are focused, unblinkingly on Juliet's face.

He doesn't want to see her like this. He screws his eyes up tight and hopes and prays. He opens them again and she looks like he remembers; this dazzling, daring brilliance that is always shining into his life. His smile is immediate, and he keeps beaming at her, and it's like his whole _soul _is a beacon of light.

Then his face falls. The light fades. They're dead.

"Did you see?" She asks and he nods.

"…But, but we breath, we have a pulse." He argues, though he knows it will be pointless, hopeless, because he _saw_.

"Do we?" She asks, and he doesn't doubt that she knows they don't have a pulse and that they don't breath like…like_ living_ people. His hand creeps towards his heart and rests there for a few moments, and then his hand circles her wrist, hoping for that small pulsating beating. It doesn't come. It isn't there.

"How long have you known?"

"A while,"

"How long have we been dead?"

"I-I don't know…I can't remember." She sounds scared and tense, and that makes _him_ frightened. He wants to ask another question, a question that is stuck in the back of his throat, silently screaming to be voiced so much so that it's burning through his veins. _How did we die? _

Juliet looks at him, and her eyes are cloudy but sharp.

He doesn't ask.

He looks in the mirror. He sees their reflections.

The sound of the alarm clock suddenly springing into life, blaring out some country song snaps him out of his thoughts.

He looks at her and grins. _It isn't really playin' is it?_

But he hears it anyway; he_ hears_ the whispery sound of a man singing a sad song and he _sees_ the flowers glistening in the moonlight and he_ feels _Juliet's soft hand slipping into his; and surely it was the feel of living flesh.

He closes his eyes and they dance together in the decaying and dilapidated bedroom. Sometimes he can see them in the mirror, and sometimes they slip from view, and when they do there's only a country song playing in a vacant bedroom, lit by moonlight.


End file.
